


Longing, Rusted

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Casualties of Desire [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes-centric, Daydreaming, F/M, Hand Jobs, Love, Lube, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Orgasm Delay, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Frustration, Sweet, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Unable to sleep thanks to nightmares, Bucky tries to purge the bad memories of the past with good with somewhat limited success until he discovers a gift left by his lover. Heated fantasies put new meanings to his defunct Russian programming, especially the command word, "Longing."





	Longing, Rusted

**_Longing_**.

The first tumbler depressed in the lock holding back the monster. He learned to hate that word in the squalid depths of a Soviet lab. Whispered on the lips, formed by the tongue, the first harsh syllable constricted a band around his stomach and clench his fingers into a metal fist.

 ** _Zhelaniye_**.

Bucky shuddered at the sibilant hiss of the wind that mocked him through the shuddering windows. There was no worse profanity to utter. Once, it marked a self-destruct sequence on his free will and conscious thought. He never understood Arnim Zola’s depraved psychology so well as he did then.

He wanted her. He craved her. Every bone ached for her absence and the nerves chattered with hollow electricity and phantom pains. Thirty-eight hours gone on her mission, secreted away to some clandestine purpose, and he could describe the agony symptoms of withdrawal bring on better than any junkie desperate for the next hit.

She did the impossible. She embodied life and fire and light in a world so defined by dark and cold, an antidote to the nightmares stalking his waking hours.

This was their life, separated into orbits that periodically diverge onto different celestial treks. Being armed with the forewarning she must go gave Bucky no comfort, only his own demons to contend with in an uncomfortable bed and with absolutely no relief. His road stretched far into the void without her.

It’s so easy to falter when stripped of hope, deprived of the light.

Vodka did nothing. Running himself to physical exhaustion only gave time to think about everything he avoided, too wearied to fend off the old mental torments. In any case, the serum utterly deprived him of the possible escape promised by a blunt of marijuana or the total muscle collapse. Screens filled with images of naked, plastic women shaved and sculpted and shaped to some ridiculous idea of nubile perfection failed to stir a response from his scarred and modified body.

There’s a reason her pillow lay in the corner of a closet, wrapped in an extra fleece blanket as though somehow rendered inert. He handled Molotov cocktails with less care. How could the scent of citrus perfume and leather be more volatile than a parade of naked flesh engaged in hardcore obscenity?

The mere thought stirred his cock to hardening under his boxers, pulling the navy cotton tight against his thigh. He reached down to tug at the material. Cold had ever been his ally, the boon companion on Soviet rooftops or secreted away on a rooftop. Cold brought focus and promised relief against remorse or guilt.

Cool air slipping through the discarded sheet didn’t do a damn thing to the building riptide of arousal humming through the slipstream of his veins. In some dark corner of Bucky’s mind, the monstrous presence emphasized its disgust.

He’d long called that civilised and cultured construct  _Winter_. Winter was cobbled from all the indecencies possible to commit against a man. Awakening the animal impulses never staved off that beast’s appearance.

Better to turn to medication to numb himself, Bucky figured, than endure any longer. There had to be something. The prospect of his cool fingers wrapped around his cock for another empty culmination held little appeal.

 _Longing_. None deserved the accursed state of a man deprived of his lover, he decided. No wonder the Red Room and Hydra artlessly patched their minds back together to deprive Widows and super-soldiers of any semblance of empathy. What torment matched the shallow hollow he couldn’t bring himself to settle into?

Wind rattled at the window panes and cold crept into the darkened apartment. The basso harmonics drilled into his head, rattled notes around his skull banishing the last hopeless attempts at sleep. The December storm buffeting the little postage stamp park destroyed whatever peace he thought to claim for himself.

No, there would be no rest for him tonight.

Bucky shoved aside a misshapen pillow. The victim of too many tosses and punches, it bore silent witness to another four hours spent hopeless in bed. The thin coverlet slid over his legs as he rotated, pushing himself up.

His apartment was empty, the distant traffic humming through Little Odessa. Loneliness hung expectant on the air, phantoms an audience gathered in the corners awaiting to see their favourite comedic spectacle stumble through another night’s performance.

 _I’d get a lick of sleep if she…_ Bucky shoved the thought aside. Never mind that. He maneuvered carefully. The weight in his soul was nothing compared to the throbbing heat pooling between his leg, seeping through his clenched belly.

Another night, he would roll onto his hip and raise a hand to find the heavy swell of her full breast. Trial and error taught him the secret to fondling the peak until her rosy nipple sleepily pebbled. For reasons known only to the cruel fates, her flesh stirred faster to the indelicate caress imparted by metal.

All Tony’s advanced technology couldn’t grant him a comparable sensitivity in the mechanical witchery grafted to his shoulder. His fingers spasmed at the electrical impulses flooded through muscles, shot by a nervous system primed to claim his prize, bed her the way they both needed.

A woman his match in every way, separated by an ocean, was no more attainable than the moon or crushing Zola's wrinkled throat. Not even the idea of those bloodshot eyes bulging out under the wide, domed forehead satisfied Bucky. His lust retreated only enough for him to feel Winter’s dark, frigid approval. Violence and passion intertwined too easily to entertain for long.

Fine. A shower or medicine, he decided.

This was his lot now: imprisoned in a forgettable flat in a forgettable part of New York, where the patter of Ukrainian and Belarusian gave some distant echoes of familiarity. SHIELD psychologists thought the setting might calm the schisms, even heal them.

Muscles in his shoulder and torso twinged in the chilly air. Bringing his hand to the thin cotton shirt, he kneaded deep into scarred flesh in a futile attempt to ease the tension away. Once, winter brought him serenity. Now all he craved was the warm oblivion of unconsciousness, rather than bleak fragments of memories swirling around in a broken glass gyre.

The distraction propelled him out of bed and away from the shadows haunting his thoughts. Something, anything had to be better than lying awake bedeviled by the need to bury himself balls-deep in the slick silk of her, to breathe in the dark cloud of resins and exotic spices from her fiery hair.

Bucky moaned in spite of himself. Fuck. Fuck.  _No_.

Did she ever catch herself in a decadent fantasy, fingers sliding between her legs, when they were apart? His jaw clenched and he stalked into the bathroom across the squeaking floorboards.

Catching her pleasuring herself in her sleep was a divine revelation, a blast of insight from the heavens to a condemned man.

The bathroom mirror gave back his haggard silhouette in the grey gloom, painting shadowed streaks down his cheeks. He frowned at his reflection, the sparking-bright glint of his bicep under the worn cotton sleeve. His hand shook on the medicine cabinet door, slamming the glass face so hard the silvery pane cracked.

A few bottles lined up on the shelf tipped into the sink and he sorted through them. The bitter sandalwood and bergamot of cologne, her Christmas gift, leaked out into the porcelain basin. He righted it immediately. Even if wearing perfume was a fool’s notion for an assassin dependent on blending in, the very presence imposed a normalcy he didn’t deserve, much less understand.

Her effort to instill some sort of humanity into the regimented existence controlled by another master. That alone warranted extra measures to protect the cologne, for all the frisson coursed up his spine and detonated a low-grade explosion along the brainstem.

If he didn’t find relief, he was going to go fucking insane. Another twelve hours and she would come back to a man haunted by her ghost, diminished to a feral, lupine beast that would take her to her knees before she made it four steps past the door.

Two plastic containers remained, and he dismissed them in short order. Both illicit and both insufficient; a powerful painkiller and an antibiotic weren’t going to fend off his demons any better than a sharpened stick halted a tigress.

Bucky flung them aside, gripping the doorframe as the room slid on an axis. Tremors raced across the flat muscles of his stomach, rocking him out of true.

 _Fine. Come and sleep, not the first time I’ve had to do that._   _Get it over with,_ he thought. Oh, the logical portion of his mind certainly heard him and the rest went on its merry deranged way anticipating boots on the ground and her svelte shadow emerging from the bedroom any moment now. Maybe she’d wrap her arm around his hip and grab his shaft directly, pressing her thumb to the bell-end in that way that made his balls tighten…

_**Longing**._

Five foot eight, toned stomach that gave her breasts obscenely wonderful lift, a maelstrom of flaming hair that entangled his fingers. Maybe he could cobble together haphazard defenses against the Soviet command words after all. If any operative invoked the forbidden phrase, he imagined her instead in his shirt sliding off her shoulder and those tight black leggings leaving nothing to the imagination.

His weakness for redheads failed any attempt at composure. The only way out lay in his own hands, but that was nothing new.

The dislodged drawer under the sink offered no relief, empty of sleeping pills or anything remotely resembling drugs. Steve had a key to the place and Sergeant Barnes had no doubt someone in SHIELD regularly swept the safehouse looking for anything contraband.

Mustn’t let the marionette dancing to Rogers’ tune get too far off his strings, after all. Living under SHIELD’s long shadow was better than staying in cold storage somewhere deep in Kaliningrad, a prisoner in the cryogenic chambers offered by T’Challa. Sacrifices he rarely bothered thinking about anymore, but with a gaping hole in his life, Bucky shuddered. His volatile brew of resentment and need served no purpose.

 _Focus!_ Drill sergeant shouts gave a moment’s relief from the throbbing of his thick shaft against his leg and the slickness smeared across the crown a moment later.  

Blind, hot urgency crackled through his thoughts while he sorted through cotton pads and bandages, metal fingers bumping against something plastic. On reflex he seized the container and hauled it up.

Light leaking in through a gap in the curtains struck the shiny label. Not something he purchased, but the only things he owned outright fit in a battered green rucksack stowed under the closet floor or the Skorpion hidden under stairs with enough ammunition to depopulate a village.

 _OGLI?_ Didn’t ring a bell. Nothing would hurt at this rate, though his hopes for a fifth of vodka rapidly diminished as he tilted the bottle this way and that. Its clear contents ran sidelong to the thin neck, washing against the plastic cap.

“Astroglide?” The word sounded hoarse and tinny to his ears. “What the hell is that?”

He was talking to himself, then. No wonder Steve kept suggesting he get a dog. While she was gone, at least he might maintain the conceit of a conversation without sounding utterly crazy.

“A man shouldn’t live alone,” Steve was fond of saying. Easy to say that when dwelling in a glorious mansion steps from Central Park, not condemned to a rat hole. Still. She called this home, too, when not also dwelling in that manse or one of a dozen apartments across the city maintained under their relative fictions.

Forget the dog, spoken like a man who never experienced the comfort of a sinuous, warm body tucked against his in the middle of the night. What man wouldn’t welcome a promise of salvation in a dark world? Nothing like losing himself in the russet locks spread over the pillow…

Bucky grunted as he squeezed the bottle.

 _No. That way lies madness_. God, if he didn’t find some fucking way out of this labyrinth he was going to strongly consider chambering a few rounds and get his revenge on the ugly sedan driven thirty miles over the speed limit by Olga’s witless, swaggering twenty-year-old son.

Too hard a squeeze. The lid bounced off the sink to the floor. He sniffed at the contents, half-expecting the sharp, aseptic bite of alcohol to burn his nostrils. A thick globule oozed out onto his thumb as the pressure equalized the thick plastic in a crackling pop.

Whatever Bucky expected, it wasn’t the slickness racing down his fingertips. Neither was  _personal lubricant_ anywhere in the lexicon of supplies anyone told him about when stashing him here weeks back.

Fresh sheets and towels in the bathroom, a few sets of cutlery in the kitchen, and a coffeemaker. Not the sticky slick substance coating his hand, not quite gel and not quite water.

The stunned revelation rocked him back on his heels. His girl left him lube. Jaw slack, he forced himself to re-examine the bottle again.

Enough to get the job done. She thought of everything except how to vanish off the grid so no self-important neo-Nazi, waving a little red book and puffed up slogans, or silhouetted madman scowling behind his eyepatch might march in and disrupt his poorly assembled collage of a real life.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the purpose. He clenched his fist and hauled the bottle out into the bedroom, snatching a towel on the way.

Astroglide made a poor substitute for the glistening honey coating her spread folds and his fingers, but  _as needs must_ and  _beggars can’t be choosers._ Noble sentiments for a man about to conjure his lover in extremis, sobbing his name in broken whispers while he coaxed yet more decadent girl-juice to flood freely down the narrow channel below her hot little pussy.

Well. He decided if salvation couldn’t show up in a trenchcoat emphasizing an hourglass build and nothing else, he’d make use of its poorer slippery substitute imagining things instead.

The bed creaked as he sat heavily on the end, scooting back enough to distribute his weight more securely. Knees sliding wide, he braced himself against the creaking metal bed frame. Cool lubricant slid over his palm, dripping between his fingers of the warmer hand. A pool of it gathered silvery in the wan light, and he tensed when the viscous droplets struck their patina against his taut abdomen. Not nearly fast enough.

The bottle tossed aside, he worked down the navy boxers with some difficulty. Such frustrated need should be incompatible with arousal, but all he needed was a thought about her rosy lips parted for those staccato gasps of an impending orgasm to buck into his closed fist.

The rude bubbling of the lube coating him from root to tip sent heat flaring into his cheeks, a prickle of old shame trailing through. Didn’t matter he had committed near every sin in the book, Bucky still owed his upbringing to a more prudish time.

The sentiment fled in the moments later as he rigorously stroked his fist in short, quick bursts. His steel palm gripped the side of the bed, offering a counterbalance of support, shoulder wrenched back to compensate for the aggressive tack. Lube welled up through the spaces in his glistening fingers, and spilled down to diminish any friction to sheer illusion.

The plum crown popped between the tight ring formed by his thumb meeting index and middle fingers. A crude imitation of the same circlet he drew when brushing his thumb side to side against her unhooded clit, hooking his fingertips up to torment the succulent point just over a knuckle-deep in her soaked channel.

Wet, lube-coated sounds of flesh on flesh differed little from the depraved symphony when he finger-fucked his writhing redhead into squirting over his palm and wrist.

The muscles of his back and buttocks clenched firmly at the thought, and his rhythm faltered to the frantic war-drum heartbeat. Copper cymbals resonated their vibrating claxons in his ears, his head swimming. Oil and the warming steel scent mixed with the musk of his arousal and a nameless something that must be the lube.

_I hate it. So fucking sticky. Better like cream when she starts to really clench down…_

His living arm ached as he shifted his grip, sliding his thumb directly beneath the ridge capping the slippery corona and gripping his cock firmly to a center. His head tilted back, dark tips of his hair brushing between his shoulder blades in an asymmetrical wave. Every motion swept through the curtain and added another unexpected element, though it all acquired a strange transparency.

Even jacking off while she washed her hair in the shower felt more real than the half-life sequence of finding pleasure absent his girl.  
  
At that point, had Victor von Doom marched in arm-in-arm with Zemo and a line of dancing Rockettes, he wouldn’t have complained much for the chorus line shouting his Russian command phrase.

His ass lifted from the mattress, heels grinding into the floorboards for a countermeasure against sliding forward. The punishing rhythm came as naturally to him as breathing, a flicker flash of speeding along and then cutting back a notch to let the entrapped blood swell in the satin skin. Pinching off the great vein long enough gave a rush, all flickering sparks and ash from a collapsing restraint.

Close. Not quite close enough. The mechanical, perfunctory motions used to slake occasional need in the days, weeks, months before she entered his life no longer satisfied him the same way. Bucky thrust his hips into the unwelcome grip constricting his aching phallus, searching for the relative angle approximating the sweet relief his girl’s slippery pussy brought. He glided across his palm, rolling his hips in sharp, stabbing thrusts that shook the bed.

Pins rattled in their much-repaired housings, bolts stripped to smooth metal screeching. The downstairs and adjacent apartments were empty, probably thanks to the cheap bed that squealed and wailed louder than the rutting couple in it most nights.

If his hand was to be a substitute, Bucky decided he might as well fuck the living hell out of it. He envisioned the positions to take just to watch her, a voyeur reduced to locked knees and shuddering bliss. The wide span of her alabaster legs accommodating his knees while he sank his rigid inches into her, over and over, wondering how she could accommodate him all at full strength.

The puddles they left spattered on the kitchen table he considered badges of honour in his drugged state, finally tipping into the molten flow of impending climax. White-hot seas boiled behind the constricted gates walling him off from heaven.

 _Get a cock-ring,_  he noted in some detached, idle part of the mind to add another errand before she got home.

Going to be essential considering he intended to wreck the bed and knock a few of those hideous, cheap portraits off the wall as a welcome home present. His hand flowed in short motions, squeezing out the translucent beads from the blunt tip of his cock. His precum mingled with the lube, spurring him on relentlessly.

Yes. Forget even closing the door. He’d hitch her thighs up and shove her up on the wall, using gravity to keep her impaled on his cock. Let the neighbour see her feet dangling above his ass, hear her trying to stifle the moans when he stretched her open in preparation for a deeper, thorough fucking.

Bucky hissed through his teeth as the dusky night blurred in front of his eyes. Stars exploded in citrine streaks, bronzed sparks showering into a blur. His body tightened, a rigid statue vibrating as the pressure boiled over.

Thick ropes of cum forced out above his sliding fingers erupted in waves, ejaculated across his knuckles. He couldn’t hear his own voice roaring her name into the void, much less the last shrieking gasp of the bed frame giving out.

Euphoric rage melted into a singular point of density exploded outwards, washing out anything more as his essence boiled out in a non-stop stream. Bucky remained vaguely aware of the heat dripping down over his balls and the uncontrollable quivering in his upper thighs, a flystung horse finally coming to a halt from a gallop.

 _Longing_. His saviour after all, the promise of sleep in the muzzy, dark arms of the afterglow.

Tension flooded through the burst dam, leaving in its wake the loosened impulse. His shaking metal arm finally flexed and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, summoning just enough energy from depleted reserves to haul his feet up onto the rumpled quilt.

The night poured in to resume its endless calm, smothering all disruptions under its limitless weight.

 _That girl thinks of everything_.

He’d tell her she was right about this forgettable little place being the perfect place, and thank her.

Right after he finished fucking her brains out.

*

 


End file.
